


Cronus Ampora remains the only character I truly care about

by Skeppsbrott



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M, M/M, Other, warnings and ratings in notes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-03
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-28 15:58:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 9,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6335194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skeppsbrott/pseuds/Skeppsbrott
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Collected drabbles of Cronus-focused ships I did in 2013 and wanted somewhere other than my tumblr (with a few Eridan/Kanaya guest appearances).<br/>Warnings and ratings in chapter notes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sleep [Cronus/Kankri]

**Author's Note:**

> Cronus/Kankri, ~500 words, melancholic fluff. General audience.

Ghosts don’t actually need sleep. Yet sleeping with Kankri is among the best things you could ever wish for. Another thing ghosts doesn’t need is the moisture of recuperacoons, and the softness of pillow and blanket piles are to you much more appealing. But then again you could practically sleep on the cold hard ground if it you could wrap your arms around Kankri and feel his chest heave with even breaths (breathing is another thing ghosts don't _have_ to do).

You yourself don’t actually sleep all that much, never did. You think Kankri know that too.

You’re deathly afraid of what Kankri know. That is why you fill your lungs with his scent when he’s asleep.

You promised him eternity and at the time it seemed so easy and wonderful. Then you started to realize just how long eternity was, and you grew scared and paranoid because what if after just a few decades there was nothing more to be said? The two of you are dead now; there is only so much left in this world to experience. And what if Kankri grows tired of the canvas of your body? When he has learned every scar and curve and muscle, what more is there? How many times can he touch your fins before they become predictable and boring rather than an exciting oddity in your anatomy?

So you build forts out of pillows and softness, lure him inside and let him sleep away a few hours of the eternity you will give him rather than emptying topics of talking or topics of touching. It's probably selfish, since you will never grow tired of him in a billion eternities, but you've been so lonely, and you are so scared that one day everything will be said and done. So you pray to whatever higher power that may or may not be a god or may or may not even exist, begging that possibly nonexistent god to let Kankri dream for just a few more hours in your arms, and perhaps even that he forget about corners of your body so that he can wake up and still find you interesting.

Because one day all _will_ be said and done. And if you can push that day forward in time, postpone it until a later eternity, even if so for a few hours, you will. For Kankri is the last thing of meaning in your pathetic life after death, as if he were a cliff in a storming sea; forcing you to hold on to him.

Somehow Kankri Vantas is so much more interesting than you, even when he’s sleeping. And it scares the shit out of you, sending shivers down your spine. Your fingers digging into his sweater to hold on to him and your nose nuzzling into his hair. Fill your lungs and heart with him, so that if he wakes up and see you for the pathetic shell that you are you can choose to never breathe out again.


	2. Rain [Cronus/Kankri]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cronus/Kankri, ~450 words, fluff. General audience.

When you woke up, he wasn’t there. The rain smattering on your windowsill and the futon on the floor next to you abandoned (it’s not that you didn’t want him to sleep in your bed, you just didn’t dare to ask).  
You sit up. You had fallen asleep holding his hand (god what a wonderful feeling), you're pretty sure, and now he had left. You storm up and out of your room, it is completely silent except for the sound of rain. You open the kitchen door and step out on the porch and into the cool air of early summer, not sure what you’re looking for because if he left wouldn’t he have taken the front door? But then again if he left there’s no use in chasing after him anyways.

The rain smatter against the wooden deck, it is light as the day but your mental clock tells you it must be around four in the morning. Your nightshirt is soaked in a matter of seconds. The rain hardens, beating the petals off of Porrim's blooming cherry tree and you close your eyes. The beauty of rain kind of hurts when he is nowhere to be seen. Yet you are overwhelmed by calmness completely unlike the panic you initially felt. As if nature itself is hushing your worries, telling you it is all okay.  
The rain stop against your skin, but you can still hear the hard smatter against wood and steel and pavement. You open your eyes and feel Cronus wrap an arm around your waist, kissing the back of your head. 

He doesn’t say anything, so you doesn’t either. You feel kind of stupid, of course he wouldn’t just run away like that.   
But then again, didn’t the Japanese consider sharing an umbrella to be one of the most romantic acts there is? You can kind of see it you guess. Maybe you should give yourself a pat on the shoulder.  
So he rocks you softly, his body leaning against yours with strong arms around your waist and hands which absentmindedly stroke your skin through the fabric of your shirt. And the rain sound against wood and synthetic fabric as you turn around, letting the umbrella fall with a soft thud on the deck.

His lips are salty, and it is kind of ridiculous really, the whole scene resembling something from Karkat's DVD collection. Not that you mind, because if the first kiss comes this natural you must be doing something right. When he pulls you close and hook your arms around his neck you can’t help but smile like a fool. How wonderful it is not to have to hide it any more.


	3. Lonely Together [Cronus/Roxy]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cronus/Roxy, ~1.4k words, angst(?). General audience - teen and up.  
> Warnings for alcoholism and unhealthy relationships.

You never thought of yourself as having a good voice, music was to you something to enjoy rather than create and while you sang in the shower and did singalongs when drunk, you always found your singing much too harsh and marked by late nights and alcohol to be appealing.  
Because while you recognized the names of Janis Joplin and Amy Winehouse, you had always been told that they were something special, unique and an exception to the rule of beautiful voices.

You met him at a smoke-filled indie club which you were fairly sure would be classed as pretentious by your friends. To be frank it might as well have been the set for just that kind of film with indie protagonists and unlikely love stories. And this guy next to you might have been the protagonists…friend.

Because he doesn’t play the main part in any movie but his own, you can tell. He is nice and wonderful to talk to, but there are creases around his eyes, marking him and telling you that he - like you - has been burned by love before; that he isn’t as heartfelt as he likes to believe, nor is he as free of blame as he likes you to believe. Whatever that means.  
But that's okay, he's just human after all and you aren’t the prettiest girl, nor the funniest to be around.

His name is Cronus, and when he picks up his guitar and starts playing right there on the bar chair, it is beautiful. He is lonely and bitter, broken and with an intense longing for something more, and it sounds. God does it sound. Maybe because you recognize yourself in him, maybe because he is wonderful at playing his heart out. Maybe because you're kind of drunk. You don’t know and you don’t care and you know your voice is coarse and ugly but your emotions need to be let out and you don’t feel like ruining your mascara.

So you sing along.

You guess it sounds horrible to anyone not you or him, but your voices intertwine in ways which make your stomach twist because god, he understands. He understands, and you understand him, it sounds cheesy but there is a connection that you couldn’t possibly hope to achieve in any other way. He looks at you with slight surprise. Then he asks you if you want to accompany him on stage next weekend.  
Because your voice is raw and filled with emotion in the same way his guitar is and in the same way his soft but dark voice could never be, no matter how many cigarettes he smoked.

It’s not a big gig he tells you, just a bar even smaller than this, but it has history and it has emotion and it has a bartender that is willing to pay him in food and a few bucks. As well as guests who are willing to give him a bill or two if he play them their favourite rock song from the seventies. Of course you say yes, even though you promised yourself not to make any promises when you were drunk. But then again you probably weren’t sober when you made that promise either. He goes through his repertoire, but you only know some of the more modern or famous songs. It’s okay, he says, why don’t you meet him tomorrow and he can show you those songs?

Why not tonight, you say.

Cronus tells you that you shouldn’t just follow strange guys home like this, and you suppose you shouldn’t, but then the playlist he has put on pass a song you know, making you tear your lips from his to sing and he sings with you. It is a connection not as strong as when he has his fingers on the strings rather than on your waist, but it still erases any sense of doubt in your mind.

The following weekend you stand on a stage for the first time in your life, singing Terry Reid and getting paid with a slightly tough, but rather tasty steak and half of the tip money. The weekend after the next you also get half of the gage and a few more hickeys to half assedly hide under your scarf.  
You wonder if maybe you will get the chance to let Cronus pour his heart out to more people, maybe you will get to be Sid and Nancy, but maybe with a happy ending? Or maybe not. Maybe your ending will be tragic and put yet more marks in and around Cronus' eyes, or maybe in yours. Maybe you wont even get that far. You don’t know, but when a guy in a retro band (that you've never heard of) t-shirt pulls him away after a gig and he comes back kissing you straight on the mouth, you are fairly sure your eventual ending is going to be grande. And maybe even with main roles in films other than your own and each other's.

Rockstars die young, isn’t that so? You wouldn’t know. All you know is that when you sing your voice is dancing with his and that every mark in his eyes is enhanced and converted to sound by the guitar; you also know that they hear it too.

When your friends ask about him you don’t call him your boyfriend. Because he isn’t, after all. You don’t own him just like he doesn’t own you. But you were lonely and so was he. And he was longing for a body to touch and you did too.  
You are lonely together now, you guess.

Your friends call you a melancholic, maybe even cynic since you met him, and you guess it’s true. Lately you’ve found the beauty in broken hearts, aching desire and star crossed lovers. You have found that feeling alone in a room full of people can be poetic rather than just sad, and while that doesn’t make it less sad, it certainly makes it easier to cope with. Especially when you know that somewhere Cronus is feeling just as lonely as you.

Sometimes you break the spell of a melancholic artist and go back to being the social bee you used to be. It is a nice change of pace, and you would lie if you said you didn’t enjoy it. But it all feels so shallow now, so fake and meaningless. You know your laugh is real but you can’t help but find it to sound empty and useless. You probably did before too, you guess you’re just able to face it better now.

And Cronus trace with shivering fingers symbols over your back, symbols which may be reasonable to him but which you can’t decipher. He hums into that spot where your shoulder becomes neck that temporary fame, whatever the size, doesn’t matter because two thirds of them are just trend followers anyways. That the two of you aren’t that kind of people who get happily ever after. That it is okay, because happiness is temporary but pain lasts forever. Just like life and death.

He is toxic to you, blackening your mind with tar from artistic cigarette smoke, black coffee and bitterness. It is like the alcohol all over again, you guess you might be a masochist of some sort. He says that he dislike your friends because they are shallow and like people are most, because they don’t think twice and don’t see the disgusting beauty in scars and dried blood on the pavement.  
You let him talk and maybe you want to defend them but you also know he is right, because they don’t see the beauty in nosebleeds; they just want to stop them (he tell you that it's a good concept, but you should leave the songwriting to him).

He is poison to you but you don’t care; there is no one in this world that you’d rather be lonely with. There is no one you’d rather connect with, be it by bodies or music. You have a feeling that as long as you sing for him you will only sink deeper into this pond of poetic misery, because even when you share it happiness is temporary, and even when you share it pain lasts forever.

No happy ending for you.


	4. Fabric [Cronus/Kankri]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cronus/Kankri, ~600 words. Teen and up.

There is something inherently erotic about the way Kankri's skin meet the fabric which he use to cover it up with. Not that you don’t enjoy him naked, but there is something about the way which some of his looser turtlenecks drape around his neck and collarbones. Exposing vital places of grey skin on his throat. There is something about the way he cover himself up with thin sheets in the evening that makes you want to stay in all night and slowly peel the fabric away inch by inch to expose more of his body.

Maybe it’s because you love the tickling feeling of teasing yourself to him, knowing that you have waited so long and now that you have him you can have him whenever. That you can restrain yourself to inflict utmost desire in both of you before you lose your self control and practically attack him, hopefully making him scream of pleasure (you love that, those times that are few and far between when you manage to break that threshold of his, where he goes from mere whimpering and muffled moans; biting his knuckles to stay silent to a panting, screaming, moaning mess).

Maybe it’s because he’s usually so covered up; ever since Porrim forced him into the sweater he hasn’t shown himself to anyone. Anyone but you, that is. It's as if the skin is extra sensitive to your eyes there. Most of all it's because when fabric cover grey skin with red hues you know that there’s more of it. You know that you can push his underwear down, millimeter by millimeter, to reveal more of his soft skin and unruly, small curls of black hair.

There is something inherently erotic about Kankri. You guess it is because he isn’t supposed to be erotic, because he doesn’t want to be erotic, and to most he isn’t. But to you he is, because when you see his lips moving you don’t see them forming words but rather caressing touches that burns your skin by mere thought. The way his bigger sweaters glide down slightly around his neck isn’t supposed to make other people desire him, but it makes you. Suddenly, your head is filled with images of lips, hands and skin brushing over where the fabric just did.

There is something inherently erotic about Kankri's clothes. You are fairly sure it's because of the fact that you know that under the thick and covering red sweater and the waist (?) high tights there is grey skin that reacts to touch, there are grubscars, there is a bit of hair, and there are the marks you have left on him as a signature that he belongs to you.

Sometimes you wonder what it must look like to everyone else, who don’t know that under red fabric he is just a person who enjoys touches and kisses, like mostly everyone else. You wonder what it must look like to those who doesn’t know what you mean when you give him a look and he tugs his collar up and looks away briefly. He doesn’t actually blush visibly, but you know he does even if the light and distance doesn’t give him away, and you can imagine the things going through his head.

There are few things you enjoy as much as the eroticism surrounding Kankri just because he doesn’t want it to, you always take note of exactly how much of his skin is showing.

Sometimes when you’re feeling extra possessive you give him hickeys all the way up to his jawline, so that he hides every inch of skin not his face or hands for the eyes of everyone but you, making him yours and yours alone.


	5. 'Rails (with pails) [Cronus/Cronus]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cronus/Cronus, ~650 words. Mature.  
> Implied Cronus/Kankri.

You guess you could say you hate him. That you're ashamed, embarrassed. But you’re not.

It isn’t _quite_ like looking into a mirror, there are differences, but few would probably notice just by the looks. This other You, this Other Cronus, is despicable. He is pathetic and desperate, craving for attention and recognition. While he is in theory attractive, he slouches when he thinks no one is looking and his trademark attempted seductive smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

You, a Cronus with a bit more spring in his feet, can however feel nothing but pity for him. It’s not a sexual attraction, not the way you feel about your matesprit. But you know how it feels. You know the bitterness in this Other Cronus’ voice. You know the feeling of emptiness and what it's like to be lonely in a room full of people. You don’t know what happened to this _particular_ instance of yourself, but you know he hasn’t shared your luck. And you have your guesses.

There is probably something very bad about being your own moirail, but you dearly want this nervous and restless Other Cronus to be free. Free from his past sins and to be given a second chance, just like you was. The Other Cronus in his turn remind you of your luck, makes you remember that you have gotten so far, and that you’re a better person now.  
You blame this - your Other, Worse self - for nothing.

You don’t blame him when he lashes out against Mituna, breaking his nose (and his own knuckles when he hits the helmet at the second punch). Maybe yourself, because you weren’t there to stop him, but certainly not him. You don’t blame him when he vomits verbal poison over Kankri, or Porrim, or anyone really. You don’t even blame him when he tell you how lonely he is, and asks you for a favour. Because you understand.

He sits in front of you, leaning against you as you touch him just like you know he (you) likes it. It is odd, seeing him like this, because suddenly the only thing differing the two of you are that the bags under his eyes are deeper. So here you are, sitting behind a naked instance of yourself in _his_  human bed, and jerking him off. You do like he asked you and kiss his neck, his shoulders and what you can reach of his face. You tell him that he is attractive, that he deserve a second chance, that he is worth _so much more_ than what he got. You kiss him and caress him, touching his gills, fins and body in the way you know you like them touched but can't do alone. Of course, he enjoys it too.

It is almost as if you are hovering out of your own body, watching yourself whine and squirm in pleasure as the hand around your bulge palm it and rub the base with it's thumb. You feel his weight against you as he lose himself, grabbing at the sheets and forgetting to swallow spit which instead make use of his gasping mouth to trail down his jawline.  
You tell him he’s pretty like this. You tell him that he’s pitiful, even loveable. Some truths mixed with lies, or things that could be truths if he just wanted them to. When he lets out a gasping whine and his bulge give that squirm in your hand which you recognize so well you reach behind you for the bucket you know he hides under the bed.

His neck is sweaty and his gills flaring as you place your lips where it joins with his shoulder. You kiss him carefully, breathing on his skin and pressing cool lips against his warmth. When he starts wheezing out curses and butchered words, you know exactly what is coming, and position the bucket better to avoid making a mess of the bed. The violet fluid is spilling soon enough, pumping into the bucket as he shudders against you and you grab him tighter and squeeze him, practically milking him empty.

You should probably think it is a bad idea being your own moirail, but there is simply no one who understands you as well as he does. As a thank you for your efforts and to compensate for your matesprit's vow of celibacy, he help you get rid of your newly achieved boner by blowing you. You always knew you would be great at that.


	6. Ocean [Cronus/Kankri]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cronus/Kankri, ~550 words. Humanstuck. Teen and up.  
> Implied trans/intersex Kankri.

There is a boy whose eyes hold the sea within them. His hair is dark and carefully styled in a way which reminds you of waves. You wonder if it is intentional.  
He has fingers callused from playing the guitar and is constantly surrounded by a scent of longing and desire. At times it is so strong you’re afraid it'll rub off on you.

Sometimes you suspect he's failing social studies on purpose, because his answers are not only wrong but ridiculous. Of course the thought is stupid, because after all, can’t he have anyone he want? It makes you angry, not only because any ulterior motives would be ridiculous but also because it matters so much more to you than it should. That some boy might be failing subjects with the intention of getting close to you shouldn’t be keeping you up at night. That you can’t call him Some Boy without feeling like a liar is another source of anger.

There is a boy who takes every instance possible to remind you of his bisexuality. Who sighs and tells you that no one understand him but you. Which you have learned is probably true because no one gives a damn about this boy's desires. And because you care about him way more than you should and what is healthy. Probably.

He angers you to no end, not that you are mad at him because how could you possibly be? He makes things complicated, making you feel things you don’t want to feel. Or things you shouldn’t feel. Sometimes he look at you and you feel naked, as if he can see right through you. When you realized that he couldn’t actually have anyone he wanted, you had already sunken too deep. When you realized why, you found that it didn’t matter to you in the slightest. You find yourself at his mercy, and it is terrifying.

There is a boy who your custodian sister looks at with condescension and who make you feel guilty just by thinking of him. When you study he makes you lock the door. He always have a way of making you put those studies off for tomorrow, without saying a word. You lose your train of thought completely when he does the smallest things.

Despite your warnings he kiss every inch with the same love and desire. A feeling for you unknown and overwhelming. You aren’t going to lie; you had imagined, guessed, wished… But it is nothing compared to the actual feeling of him tugging at your underwear. When he doesn’t feel what should be there the expected streak of surprise cross his face. You had never had a problem seeing yourself in the mirror but now your heart stop for that brief second, before he smile and kiss you again.

There is a boy who make you blush when he looks at you in school. Who is the reason many now go silent when you walk past. He knows your body better than anyone else, even you, and he love every inch of it, making it hard to remember that most wouldn’t. Not that it matter, because after all it is _his_ body you enjoy the weight of when he lies atop of you.


	7. Bubblegum [Cronus/Roxy]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cronus/Roxy, ~400 words. Humanstuck/High school stuck. Teen and up.

Roxy is hot. She's hot in that Girl-Next-Door sense you had always enjoyed.

Of course she was popular as soon as she entered the school, not only being fresh meat, but also being the typical girl people take to. Cheery and friendly and Of Fucking Course you had to hit on her.

It took some time, she was aware of your reputation (obviously, being friends with the gossip friendly half of the school) and teased you mercilessly. Practically wrapping you around her finger.

That only made the taste of her chapstick and bubblegum all the sweeter once you got her.

You liked to think of the two of you as That One high school movie couple. Or rather, you knew the two of you were. The sneaky buttslaps or gropes you gave each other in the corridor or with hands in each others back pockets, the giggling from a horde of girls when they demanded her presence, the teasing and the kisses against her locker before class.

The guys talk behind your back, obviously because they’re jealous. The girls are loud and gossipy and she usually brings back what they say to you. You take it as a medal of honour to be worn almost as proudly as the scent of her perfume on your shirts.

You guess it’s not going to last forever, you don’t really want to think about it. And it’s not like it matters because right now the corridor is empty, right now your hands are on her hips and waist, right now you can feel the taste of her bubblegum and the way you are absolutely engulfed because holy hell teenage love might just be the strongest force on earth.

A force which only Mr. Lauren can tear apart it seems. When he pulls her into her classroom she wipes off her mouth, winks and blows you a kiss. You wink back and fill a sickeningly sweet, pink bubble with the breath she just gave you.

Roxy is sweet, she is bubbly and a whirlwind of general amazing, blowing you away in a storm of emotions which are simple and wonderful. It won’t last forever, as it seldom does, but while it does you are going to enjoy it to its fullest.


	8. French [Eridan/Kanaya]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eridan/Kanaya, <500 words, Humanstuck. General audiences.

You love it when she speaks French. Not those phrases crammed out just so you can hear them but rather the strings of sentences escaping her when she is talking to someone on the phone or just muttering to herself. Or reading things she has written out loud.

The quick words and the melodic sound of a language you cannot grasp but which she understands and form in her hands like she shapes garments, it is beautiful. You have no idea what she is saying and it is in moments like this you wish you had taken better care of your ancestry (Italian and Irish really isn’t that bad, but of course you had to be a stubborn little shit and revolt against your grandfather who could have learnt you Irish).

She doesn’t tell you who she is talking to, but you have learnt to separate the soft tone and words she use when she is talking to her mother from the more snappy language used when dealing with editors, photographers and industry people.

You love the way she goes from having a conversation with you in an accent which no one would ever guess…except the French. The French will always hear that Kanaya belongs to them and that you don’t. Watching her seamlessly change from English to French when the two of you are walking down the streets of London and a woman asks her in French for what you assume is directions, is beautiful.

Most of all you love it when she after a week together in France starts slipping in French into her English. When she forgets herself and speaks French to you, for sentences, before she remembers you have no idea what she’s saying because you were just staring at her and appreciating the sound of her creating R’s at the back of her throat.

When she asks you if you want to learn the language you say no, because you know that if you hear meaning you will cease to hear the beauty. She says that “that’s a shame” and curls up to you. Words suddenly falling from her mouth like a waterfall. What she is saying you have no idea, it seems emotional, sincere and you find yourself in a state of understanding her despite not understanding her words. There is a break in the stream, silence. For a few seconds you find yourself waiting for Kanaya to finish the sentence you know she abruptly stopped at.

When she parts her lips again it is but a shallow whisper close to your ear and in that moment you so intensely wish you knew Irish because there is something so much more heavy about confessing your love in a language which is entirely yours. You turn your head and give her a chaste kiss, your glasses promptly sliding down your nose. She smiles and takes them off you when you pull back. “I lovve you too, Kan.”


	9. Coats [Eridan/Kanaya]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eridan/Kanaya, ~1000 words, Humanstuck/middle school AU. General audiences.

Whenever your scarf slide down your breath forms a dim smoke. The frosty gravel crunches under the soles of your classmates who are trying to keep warm in t-shirts and sweatpants. You tug the scarf tighter around you and wonder what sort of teacher would be sadistic enough to keep the outdoors p.e. lessons going way into November.

It is early morning and the only reason you’re loathing in self pity on a bench on the side of the soccer field and not in a warm bed is because despite how much you may despise Cronus he still does have a nice car. And self pity on a crowded bus takes out all the pleasure in self pity under warm blankets. You tug the violet wool parkas tighter around you and curl up a bit more, your glasses fogging up from your breath before they are removed.

“Kan what the hell.” She regards your glasses for a second before pulling a tissue out of the pocket of her coat and starting to rub the dirt off of them. You roll your eyes and look out on the field where blurry dots of garish neon yellow and pink chase back and forth after what you know is the ball but can’t really see without squinting. In the back of your head the thought surfaces that the rather new additions of girls skipping p.e. with an excuse of…well, girly reasons, they are usually not alone. Usually there’s two or three of them who at the same time go up and exchange a few words with the teacher. The entire thing strikes you as odd and if you weren’t so grossed out by the whole concept you would feel tempted to ask Kanaya about it. A voice in the back of your head tells you that this is the sort of thing you should probably ask your Experienced Big Brother (™) about, not your girlf- female friends. To your surprise you don’t actually feel contempt at the thought of asking him. With a scowl you decide the numbing cold has deafened your judgement.

The glasses are back on the bridge of your nose just in time for you to see Vriska tackle some poor kid and get the match stopped for the third time in fifteen minutes. You let out a groan and contemplate whether bus-self-pity might just actually have been worth it today.

“You should probably clean your glasses more often if a clear view of the world bring such contempt to you.” Kanaya remarks with her usual deadpan tone. You have no idea whether she’s a master of sarcasm or completely serious. You like that a fair bit more than you’d admit to.

Though that’s a steady emotion you have towards most about her. You don’t really feel like contemplating it any more. “Let’s get out of here, she wont notice as long as we’re back by the end of the lesson.” you stand up and she looks at you as you do a few small jumps up and down on the spot to get warm.  
She looks at you, out on the group of students trying to keep warm on the gravel and back at you before getting up and shoving her hands in the pockets of her coat. “If we get in trouble I’m blaming you.” Of course she will.

Turns out you can’t head inside because of teachers looking suspiciously at you, so you take a walk through the forest on the off side of the school instead. You had a sad realization the other day when you came to think of the fact that aside from Feferi you have about three people who can be considered friends of yours. One who is supposedly your girlfriend but is also the one who goes to the greatest lengths of making you flip your shit. One who rarely refers to you as anything but “asshole” and then there’s Kanaya. You’re not entirely sure if it counts as a friendship really but then again your supposed girlfriend bit your lip hard enough to bleed the other day so you suppose you can give yourself a bit of leeway.

On one hand she frustrates you endlessly with what you think is some form of very intricate irony and or sarcasm which involves being very literal and honest about things, not to mention that she repeatedly makes fun of you. But then again there is also the fact that she is somehow always okay with you sticking around. And the fact that there is some sort of mutual understanding between you.

Because you’ve both been in the teachers office in one of those mockingly comfortable chairs sitting opposite of Vriska, to “try and clear this up”.   
Because you both know each others secrets, namely regarding the other two girls in your life. Mainly secrets you are keeping even from yourself. The sort of secrets known by everyone but two.

You walk in silence, leaves crunching under the soles of your feet.   
“When girls spend a lot of time together their periods synchronize.”   
“You’re not fuckin' serious.”   
“Deadly.”   
“What the hell.” It’s a bit of a weird conversation starter, even for the two of you, but once the question is asked the conversation flows smoothly, along the rocky paths of the forest uninterrupted and yet not emptied when you spot a bright blue Vriska on the time out bench. You catch yourself wondering what Kanayas hand would feel like in yours, just to be followed by a mental self-slap and a “What the hell, Eridan.”

When Vriska starts using the back of your head as bullseye for her paper balls in history, and Feferi makes a note about how cute the new guy is in the margin of your textbook; you can’t help but ask yourself what the hell you and fussyfangs are missing out on. You even let yourself hold the thought for a bit, observing her as she observes Vriska in some ironic circle of conflicted teenage emotions. You miss about fifteen minutes worth of note-taking.

Huh.


	10. Showers [Cronus/Dirk]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cronus/Dirk, 125 words, Humanstuck. General audiences.

Cronus Ampora's new flatmate turned out to be one of few to be able to compete with him when it came to long showers.

Like it often does it turned out they had even more than that in common. For example a wide knowledge on hair products, an affinity for old cars and motorcycles, and an aversion to defining their sexuality. Not to mention a bad luck with love despite them both having exceptionally good looks.

When Dirk suggested they shower together so that one wouldn’t have to wait for hours for more hot water, Cronus could hardly do anything but take up on the offer.

Sharing the shower did however end up having little to no effect on the households actual consumption of hot water.


	11. Secrets [Cronus/Eridan]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cronus/Eridan, 280 words, dreambubbles. Teen and up.  
> Content warnings for topics of (though no technical) incest.

Eridan is the sort of guy who makes a lot of fuss until you reach a certain point. After which he starts choking up on whines and moans and shivering breathing. Your tongue flick over the soft skin where his hips cave in and he inhales sharply, burying his face in the scarf and his fingers in your hair.

There is something inherently narcissistic about banging someone with the same set of genes as your own, yet for most trolls it wouldn’t be a big deal at all. In fact, you’re sure Kankri is way more outraged by the fact that his clone broke his vow rather than the detail that it was with Karkat.

You and he has discussed the topic. Because apparently it is a human taboo. Which is why the one thing you would never tell him about is Eridan. You don’t need more people thinking you’re faking it.  
Not to mention the way you itch in all the right places when the two of you exchange glances and he blush and look away because you know where those lips have been and so does he, but neither of you would ever say it out loud.

Because you are, in a sense, using him.

Because this silent promise between you is so wonderfully sweet and laced with violet, saltly, bitter shame.

A burning twinge of shame and wrongness you feel whenever your fingers grace your hypothetical brothers skin. Regardless of what is the actual source, it makes your body feverly warm like you never thought seadweller blood could muster

And it makes you feel just a little more human. A little more real. A little more alive.


	12. A Little Less Conversation ch.1 [Cronus/Dirk]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cronus/Dirk, ~1500 words, fiftiesstuck. Teen and up.  
> This is the first chapter of a project I never finished. I am currently working on remaking the fic alltogether, so keep an eye out on my page.

“Wow, I can’t believe I’m actually here again.” A car door slam shut.  
“You haven’t actually accomplished anything just yet, It’s only July.” A soft thud sounds when Cronus feet hits the dusty pavement of the schools parking lot. Not a drop of rain has found its way to the ground since mid June. “Also I would be really happy if you used the doors for their intended purpose. You can be as acrobatic as you like with that batthub on wheels you call a car but this jewel is mine.”  
“Your so called jewvel is orange. Do I really need to say more? And my baby is fine she just need a bit of polish, and no way in hell I’m doing that in this weather. Smoke?” He reaches the package over to Dirk who takes one and pulls out a lighter from his back pocket.  
Sometimes Cronus can’t help but feel that they’re a well oiled machine, all communication is just there for polite purposes. No wonder they had earned the respect to keep the gang alive and running. He leans against the side of the car, slowly letting the sweet nicotine pass through his lips and observing the mercilessly bright and dusty school yard. “Pretty unbelievwable actually. My last year. God knows what I’ll do after this”  
“Prostitution?”  
“Sod off strider."   
"Hey, you’d do great I’m sure.”

Cronus snorts and lightly box Dirks shoulder. “I don’t know anyone else where I wouldn’t be sure whether a statement like that was a compliment or an insult.” He gets a smug hint of a smile in return from the blonde, and after a few minutes of silent smoking conversation resumes. Dirk is one of the few people Cronus Ampora seems to get along with; they both grew up in the right part of the city, wealthy and spoiled with attention and gifts but poor of love in favour of getting the right upbringing. Although he does envy Dirk whose father not only supports his rebellion but even encourages it. Dirk always laugh at that though, what’s the fun in revolting against something or someone if they agree with you? He has said it before, the days when sex and rock music were scandalous are passing, the question is what the next big thing is.

The subjects discussed today are of easier nature; their old leader, new music and cars, of course. Per usual he find himself oddly relaxed, no need to check his hair every few minutes in Dirks company, no need to keep the walls of tough guy up. That is until Dirk nudges him with his elbow. “Hey Cro, it’s your girlfriend.”  
The hot pink 62 Eldorado never fails to make an impression, and even in this weather it is shining. But then again, if you’re a Peixes petty things such as drought doesn’t affect you. Cronus quickly walk over to the side mirror and combs through his hair. When he looks up Roxy is already by Dirks side, carefully tending to the blond jellyroll.  
He’ll never understand why their relationship is just an act, he’d quite honestly do anything for a chick like Roxy Lalonde. Soft curves everywhere, hips lips and breasts. Big eyes with long lashes, carefully applied nail polish and bouncy blonde locks. Not to mention a soft person. But no he, Cronus Ampora, is courting Meenah.

To be quite honest he doesn’t know why anymore. He has been flirting with her mericlessly since forever and even though she hates him they are widely recognized as being an item. Not to mention that even if they aren’t exactly the couple who do romantic dinners or picnics they certainly do other things. And he can’t lie to himself, she DOES things to him. Here he is, putting on his flirty smile and the slight swing in his legs. Here she is, newly applied lipstick. And there her nails dig into his shirt and she has to reapply it. Though it’s not exactly healthy, this whatever it is. And frankly what he hates most is being so powerless when it comes to her.

“You really shouldn’t be wearing black today Dirkles, it’s hot as the sun out here. Why weren’t you boys at the café or something instead?” Roxy sighs dramatically as she leans on the hood next to Dirk, a modestly floofy skirt weighed out by a blouse unbuttoned a bit too far down. “Let me guess, you were talking about ‘the gang’.”  
Meenah smirks and cross her arms. “Don’t be so hard on them Rolal, you know as well as I that without a leader boys can’t do shit. And don’t give me that look Strider, that’s what happens when you make yourself dependent on mothers, girlfriends and wifes. I might not win in a fight of fists but at least I can do my own laundry.”  
“Oh shut up dolly, thats genetic. Pretty hands like yours weren’t made fo ruff things like fighting.” Cronus hands ghost over Meenahs waist and she turns towards him, quirking an eyebrow over the pink cat eyes and grabbing his shirt again. He tries to take the chance and leans in, but she shove him away. Of course she does, like a game of cat and mouse.

“Well if you had ever TRIED washing your own threads you’d known that it isn’t exactly a spa. Sides you guys don’t even do old school fist fights anyways. C'mon Rox, can we leave yet?”  
Once Roxy has given Dirk a peck on the cheek Meenah demonstratively revvs the engine and they’re gone. He sighs, rubbing at the nape of his neck and leans on the hood next to Dirk again.  
“I might be hella good at cars and ace in math, but I don’t think I’ll ever understand the mechanics of your relationship with Meenah.”  
“Dude I just realized your shades are basically the same style as Meenahs, why are you wearing womens glasses?”  
“Just now? And I’m not wearing womens glasses I’m wearing my glasses. Don’t change the subject.”  
Cronus let out a groan, rubbing his temples slightly. “You are so infuriating. And you know the deal, it’s basically the same as with your kitten, an Ampora and a Piexes what more could we wish for?” Dirks cigarette butt land on the ground and is crushed under the sole of a chuck taylor. It is clear he is waiting for Cronus to continue talking. Cronus shoots the blonde a glare and opens his mouth again. “Okay so it’s not the same as the famous Ms. Roxy Strider item. You cold hearted bastard.” An eyebrow is quirked in his direction, but other than that no reaction. “I guess we’ve just been a thing for so long, honestly we’re about as much of a universal constant as you and Rox, just not as pretty. I couldn’t break it with her even if I wanted.”  
“But do you want to?”  
“Dirk seriously do you realize that we are having some sort of girly gossip thing here it is unmanly as hell.”  
“Don’t care. Would you break up with Piexes, given the chance?"   
"Yes. No. Probably not. I would regret it. If we are going to talk girls can’t we talk about Roxy instead?”  
The chrome lighter is reached over, giving the cigarette its power. “Why, it’s not like she’s up for grabs and you already know my relationship with her.”

“Yes but I don’t know why. Any man in this city would give an arm and a leg to be with that bombshell blonde and you have her and don’t even touch her unless you have to. I don’t get it.”  
“Don’t talk about her like that, I touch her, I’m just not into her like that and wouldn’t want to crush her heart by giving her the signals sleeping with her would.” A shadow move over Dirks face, but goes unnoticed.  
“But the dating thing doesn’t? I mean, break her.” Cronus cigarette is stolen from him by Dirk.  
“I think she knows, she’s just pretty…deep in her dreams. I don’t think not being with her would make things easier. Also it keeps other chicks off my back.”  
Cronus furrows his eyebrows, looking him up and down, trying to deem what he really means. How much of that actually are honest words. Because to him, the situation is pretty much turned. There is a part of him that he doesn’t really admit to that tells him that he is way more into Meenah that he likes to believe. That the way their childhood teasing turned into teenage flirting wasn’t that bad after all even if it means that he knows he’s just a tool. Giving her what she needs and wants without needing to risk the scolding words and rumours. He shoves the thought aside and takes back his cigarette. “I don’t think I’ll ever understand you, boss. What does that even mean?” Dirk gives him one of the rare smirks that stays more than a millisecond and stands up straight, turning back to the car.  
“That is for me to know and for you to be driven mad by.”


	13. A Little Less Conversation ch.2 [Cronus/Dirk]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cronus/Dirk, ~900 words, fiftiesstuck. Teen and up.  
> This is the first chapter of a project I never finished. I am currently working on remaking the fic alltogether, so keep an eye out on my page.

    He finds his lips against Dirks perfect skin, the place where his hips cave in to be more precise. It is an odd feeling, but enjoyable. If it wasn’t for the fact that even when his fingers inch to tug at the loops of Dirks jeans the boy remains cold and rigid, a bit like marble. Always cold and rigid, controlled.   
   Cronus stands up instead, their faces perfectly aligned because thanks to some miraculous feat of the stars they are the exact same length down to millimetres. But their eyes don’t meet, thanks to those stupid shades. Thinking of it he has never really seen Dirks eyes.  
   "C'mon chief, let me see you, just this once…“ he murmurs, reaching his hands up to the glasses. Dirk quirks an eyebrow.  
    "Are you sure about that, Cronus?”  
    The stable tone in Dirks voice makes him hesitate, but then he swallows and nods. “Yeah.” His hands carefully unhook the eyewear from Dirks ears, a feeling of falling emerging in the pit of his stomach. As if the action proved a point of no return.  
    Behind the shades are nothing. A undescribable void of nothingness and Dirk slowly shakes his head, “You really don’t know what’s best for you Cronus, do you?” and their lips meet but yet they don’t because Cronus is screaming, being swallowed by the void and in a sense falling because that was, indeed, the point of no return and Dirks lips consume him, a kiss of death which reminds him of some sort of soul sucking demon but yet, so intensely passionate and tenderly embracing the scream.

    And then he falls out of bed.

—

    It’s early morning, Cronus figures as he tries to orientate himself. The sun is just rising.  
    He is sweating, and going back to bed doesn’t seem like a good option right now, so instead he heads downwards to get something to eat. He is stopped in the hallway when the door clicks. It is a sort of panic response, probably thanks to his nerves being on end and it takes him all until he sees Eridan standing there until he realizes this would be the worst time to break and enter anyway.  
    Eridan looks him up and down with his seemingly permanent scowl (Cronus has a distinct feeling he is harshly judging his seahorse print capeblanket, anchor boxers and tubesocks combo) and Cronus stares right back at him, frozen for a few seconds before they in unison utter a “what are you doing up”.  
    “Weird dreams, you?” Ampora junior the younger takes off his pretentious coat (Ampora junior the younger has an obsession with the British Teddy Boys. Much to the annoyance of Ampora junior the older he takes every given instance to point out how in every town that “actually is somethin’” the Greasers are practically dead and that in London anyone looking like Cronus would be laughed at whereas he, Eridan, is up with the latest London fashion trends thanks to his English penpal Karkat. Cronus does however doubt whether Stanhope actually is a district in the outskirts of London. Not to mention the scribbly handwriting he has seen on the letters which looks nothing like that of a supposed high class Londoneer. But what does he know) and says something about a certain Feferi.

    Cronus raise an eyebrow and is payed back with a pointed look. “The Midnight Movvie Marathon down at Flare, you nosebleed.” His second eyebrow raises and he nods towards the rising sun. Eridan scowls and heads out to the kitchen. “Unlike you I’m a gentleman, Cro. Made her company home an’ got invited for a cup of tea ’s all.”  
    Eridan pours himself a glass of milk before Cronus snags the bottle. “And?”   
    “You’re disgusting. And fuckin’ none of your business. Already told you that unlike you I’m a gentleman.” Observing his brother Cronus empties the bottle. He can read him well enough by now, a blush that so obviously says “And I didn’t get nearly as far as I wanted” that it’s almost pityful.  
    Dirk pops back up in his mind, and for a few seconds he is probably just standing there with the bottle to his lips and staring at the blushing horizon because Eridan snaps his fingers in front of his eyes. “Hey, grease.” Cronus shrug.  
    “What did you vwatch then? Any good? How did her boobs look?”  
    “Cronus, for fucks’ sake.”  
    “Hey, just askin’. Wanna know all about it I mean she’s way curvier than Meenah.”  
    “You’re literally awwful, I’m going to bed.” Eridan throws up his hands and heads upstairs, not even bothering with the half empty glass. Rolling his eyes Cronus follows him back out in the hallway.

    The cigarettes are in the chest pocket of his jacket as always and stealing his fathers lighter he sneaks the door open. The early morning air is chill, with the light that only appears before the summer suns painfully slow rise. Throwing the black curls out of his face and rubbing the leftovers of uncalming sleep from his eyes he takes a slow drag and he must still be halfway asleep but he can’t for the life of him remember the dream. It is a standard beautiful day but giving the sky a glance he notices a cloud. It is the first sign that the summer is coming to an end, a subtle hint of the fact that the first customary dry half of the break is soon gone.

    He decides to get some clothes on and head over to Dirks garage, it’s not like the guy ever sleeps anyway.


End file.
